


after all the breath and the dirt and the fires are burnt

by quieted_orchestra



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Biblical References, Drabble, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon Era, and by that i mean this takes place after the june rebellion, grantaire didn't die au, gratuitous mythology references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3814834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quieted_orchestra/pseuds/quieted_orchestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Enjolras from Grantaire's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after all the breath and the dirt and the fires are burnt

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially Grantaire's letter to Enjolras, written to answer the question 'What if R didn't wake up from his drunken stupor during the June Rebellion and his death scene never took place?'
> 
> Title comes from Afterlife - Arcade Fire.

Shoulders back, chin high, red flag burning through the haze of dusk, you stare back defiantly at the world that has wronged you, as if daring the very earth to tremble.

This is the way I remember you.

In my mind, you were a shining hero. Not a white knight, no, your armor was too bloodstained for that. But when you spoke, you spoke with conviction. You raised your voice only against injustice; your sole purpose was to help those who could not help themselves. 

In your red coat, hair gleaming gold and eyes sparking like fireworks, you were beautiful in every sense of the word. A hot-blooded Achilles, a statuesque Apollo; fear was to you as a flood was to a desert in drought—that is to say, non-existent—and your desire for change superseded any consequences. 

_(A note on the futility of words: As it is, language was only built to say so much—the idea of you can’t be fit into a metaphor. To compare you to a star implies you would burn out. To compare you to a man is to put a deity to shame. To designate you a king denies you your humility, while to brand you a beggar denies you your greatness. Everything written here is an attempt to express you to the best of my ability, and any inaccuracies can only be blamed on the inefficacy of the means.)_

I remember you as something so the opposite of me. After all, what’s a man to an ant?

Darkness to light, skeptic to believer, the moon to the sun—you despised me, but I clung to you. When all in my life was shaded, you were so bright, and I drank you in like a man parched in the desert who has found a well. 

You despised me, yes, but I never asked for anything more. 

Of your many names, perhaps the most common was the title of leader. You led your men into the fray and beside them you fought, brave-hearted and strong-willed, so that anyone who saw would declare you unstoppable. A true juggernaut of flesh and bone and steel. Guns blazing, eyes flashing, jaw clenched and lips forming the inevitable words— _Vive la revolution!_ Long live the republic. Long live the land you were so willing to give your life for. What was the phrase? _Liberté, égalité—_

I knew it was a lost cause.

Your devoted followers never questioned your judgement. Oh, preacher, you painted a grand picture of bright days and bright eyes, freedom and equality, safety for the poor and justice for the wicked—and you believed in it, all of it, with all your strength. This was your eschaton. Tooth-and-nail, you crusaded for the rights of the people, and stood to face the judgement day with your head held high.

Ultimately, the problem was your humanity. 

O fearless leader, even you cannot help but feel—even the Lionheart can make mistakes. 

In the days before the end, all I saw in your place was a statue. Yours was a majestic regality. Adonis would look at the slope of your nose, the fall of your eyelashes, the curve of your lips, and fall to the floor in jealousy.

A masterpiece to rival those of Michelangelo, Carpeaux, and Donatello, the mighty sculpture stood indomitable before us—you can’t blame me for being blind to your shortcomings. I disagreed with you and bore your hatred for it, but never a moment did your beauty fail to fill me with awe. 

As for your humanity, it was doubted by me only for never having been witnessed. You didn’t get sick. You couldn’t be injured. Tireless and fierce, unrestrainable on all accounts, you were an ardent, all-consuming fire. 

I toasted to your glory, and drank with the knowledge that it was all going to waste.

Often we forget that Michelangelo’s David was once human as well. Told in the _great story_ , spelled out in indulgence, disobedience, and ignorance, his downfall begs the assumption: If a man so admired by the one called the Creator could falter even in the midst of all his excellence, surely you had the right to make mistakes. You, revolutionary of barely twenty-two, hardly more than a _child_ , certainly had the capacity to stumble.

Valor led to your uprising, but humanity led to your demise. None of that righteous fury, outspoken indignation, or undeniable bravery could make up for this hamartia: You reached for too much and you fell short. 

In the way most great tragedies go, yours began with a matchstick flare and ended with a burst of untimely air.

I would have liked to say your death was your crowning achievement. The way you were in life, bright, full of emotion and vigor and with a gaze that was always gleaming--you deserved to have your finale _mean_ something. The _Notre-Dame de Paris_ does not receive indifference in its collapse, and you, with your fingers the spires and shoulders the towers and chest the high altar, you, of all of us, deserved nothing less. 

In love with your country and its people, you stormed the streets of Paris, rallying troops and leading them into your holy war—France became the only thing worth dying for. It was a remarkable feat. All of us who watched were stunned at your intellect and audacity, and all of us, even those who knew you would fail, held hope for the tomorrow of which you so boldly spoke.

No, your death was not a victory. The men you led to fight for your cause were killed within a day. It was a gruesome demise, bullets flying and soldiers falling, the sounds of screaming filling the air. 

A cataclysm of young lives cannot be romanticized. 

Don't mistake my words. This isn’t to say I doubt that you were a great man. 

Every fibre of my being venerated you, you must know—your convictions weren’t shared, but you, Apollo, _ne plus ultra_ of martyrs, were unmistakably a hero in my sight. 

And as you stood there, fire in your eyes and red flag hoisted high, you brought me to terms with the unexplainable: 

I have never believed in anything, but I believed in you.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Carpeaux - Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux was a French painter alive during Victor Hugo's era (1827-1875).
> 
> 2\. Michelangelo's David - based on the biblical David, who was the highly respected king of ancient Israel - had a few scandals involving sin (killing one of his soldiers so he could marry that soldier's wife, sort of thing).
> 
> 3\. Notre-Dame de Paris - Yes, I realize that this is the French version of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame (also, coincidentally, written by Hugo), but I'm talking about the actual cathedral.


End file.
